


Tired of Being Alone

by moritzofsuburbia



Category: Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, M/M, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2014-10-06
Packaged: 2018-02-20 03:38:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2413550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moritzofsuburbia/pseuds/moritzofsuburbia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the extended absence of his lover, Daniel gets drunk and can only sink deeper and deeper into depression.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tired of Being Alone

**Author's Note:**

> (Trigger Warning?)
> 
> I'm kind of new at this, so comments are appreciated!

Leaning my head back, I poured the rest of the contents of the bottle down my throat, no longer paying attention to the taste. I wasn't drinking because I enjoyed it, I was drinking to get drunk. That was the only reason I did it anymore.

Immortality within my grasp, yet held tauntingly just out of my reach... If I couldn't have what I wanted, then drugs and alcohol were the next best thing, weren't they?

Just drown the pain. _I wonder if this is what human blood tastes like to a vampire._

But it wasn't even pain anymore. It had transcended that, and now the feeling deep within my chest was just a dull ache and constant longing.

Armand had been gone for nearly a month now; how could he keep doing this? He knew full well the effect that his absence had on me. Did this entertain him? Did he perhaps keep a close mental watch on me, so that he could see how I suffered, and swoop in at the last moment to save me if I came to stand on the brink of death yet again? Or had he just ceased to care, running off to wherever he pleased, not worrying about me until he returned to see the condition I was in, and then return me to a state of reasonable sanity?

I couldn't decide which possibility was worse.

I could only stand here, leaning against the wall of my room (a rather expensive room at that, everything in our home on the Night Island was obscenely expensive, but after all, money didn't matter anymore) making a continuous effort to keep myself steady in this drunken state. I actually laughed under my breath as I became aware of the possibility that I could fall and maybe crack my skull; such a thing would never happen to Armand, or Lestat, or Louis...

Abruptly, my calm outward demeanor broke. I smashed the empty bottle against the wall that I leaned against, and it took me a moment to register the pain in my hand. It was only when I clenched it into a fist and felt the wetness that I realized I was bleeding. And it wasn't until I actually bothered to look at my hand that I noticed how deep of a gash the broken bottle had made.

I shakily unclenched my fist, and didn't even react when I saw the thick shard of glass embedded deeply in the palm of my hand. Rather, I think I laughed again. But it was getting hard to remember things at this point, hard to make myself focus or even realize what was happening to me.

I said his name over and over in my head as I let myself sink to the ground, my back against the wall. _Armand, Armand, Armand. Why won't you come home?_ The tears began to form in my eyes, hot and wet and irritating.

Gathering a few wet shards of glass in my uninjured hand, I stared intently at them, having to bring them close to my face to make my violet-eyed gaze focus. Then, without really thinking about what I was doing, I pinched one of them between my fingers, letting the others drop on their own, and I dragged it across my wrist. Not enough blood, not enough pain. I barely felt it. This time, I made a vertical cut, from my wrist all the way to the crook of my elbow. Ah, that was better. Maybe the physical pain would become so intense that it would cancel the emotional.

How pathetic was I, sitting drunk in this fancy room surrounded by shards of a broken bottle and a growing pool of my own blood?

This felt great, like spitting in Armand's face, like screaming at him to go fuck himself. That was what I really wanted to do in this moment. I wanted him to know the pain he was causing me, and I wanted him to know that I hated him for it.

 _No no no you love him_ , a voice in my mind whispered, and I silenced it with another slice across my inner arm. A thought came to me suddenly, that I should bury the shards of glass in my head in an attempt to make the damn voices finally shut up. But I was still hard at work on my arm, slicing over and over and over...

I wanted more alcohol. I wanted to just make myself stand up and go get it and drink every last drop.

_Daniel you're fucking weak, you piece of shit, just stand up._

But my eyes were starting to close, and I was beginning to slump over, and I don't remember anything else because that's when my vision went black.

_I hope God isn't real, because if he is I'm definitely going to Hell_

~~~

When my vision finally returned, I was laying on my back and everything was white. The brightness made my eyes hurt, and I squinted for a brief moment before giving up and closing them again. Part of me wanted to go back to sleep. I didn't know how much time had passed, it somehow seemed to feel like only minutes and a thousand years had gone by at the same time. I had no delusions of heaven or 'going into the light,' I knew I was in the hospital. My head throbbed, and there was an awful pain in my arm. What did it look like, I wondered for a brief moment. Would it heal, or had I mutilated it beyond repair?

_It doesn't matter. I'll take care of it._

But this wasn't my thought this time, I heard the familiar voice in my head just as I had heard it so clearly and so often before. I struggled to lift my head, and I scanned my eyes around the room, amidst the doctors and nurses and hospital equipment, straining my vision. I thought perhaps I could just make out the figure of a young boy, standing hidden away from everyone else, in a spot where he might just escape the notice of most people. It was the red hair that made him so easy for me to place; he hadn't bothered to clip it short tonight as he so often did in this modern age. His eyes were large and nearly childlike with worry. I couldn't be sure of course, but I thought I saw thin streaks of red down his cheeks, the bloody tears. Had he been crying?

It all made sense. He had come to me at the last possible moment. He had saved me from death, and maybe I hadn't wanted to die after all. Maybe I had only done what I did because I trusted that he would come for me.

 _It's alright, Daniel,_ he whispered to me through my thoughts. _You don't have to worry about it now. You're safe, and I love you, I love you so much._

"Armand.." I muttered, trying to pull myself to a sitting position. But immediately a nurse was by my side, and she gently pushed me back down, telling me in a comforting voice that I should rest more, I must still be in so much pain.

I reluctantly allowed myself to lay back down, and my eyes to close again. If only because of the next words I heard from Armand's telepathic voice if nothing else.

_Rest, Daniel, I'll be here when you wake, I promise. Just rest and let yourself feel better. I love you, remember that. I love you._

 


End file.
